


A matter of timing

by strawberriesandtophats



Series: No such things as stability (only flux) [2]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bisexuality, Canon Disabled Character, Coffee, Desk Sex, Established Relationship, Gender Fuckery, Lingerie, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:32:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23973058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: “Ah,” Vetinari said. “That’s an expression I like to see.”
Relationships: Havelock Vetinari/Samuel Vimes
Series: No such things as stability (only flux) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758511
Comments: 13
Kudos: 45





	A matter of timing

At first Vimes been glad that he’d woken up at dawn and gone to work early because that meant that he was around when the shit truly hit the fan, problems piling on top of other ones. And then when those had been solved, other problems rose up with a vengeance.

He’d delegated, he’d shouted, he’d arrested a whole bunch of aristocrats for loitering with intent while inside a tent, he’d even finished a whole pile of paperwork.

And then there had been the usual walk around the watch houses, supervising all kinds of murder cases and listening to reports of unlicensed thefts, arson, fights and general unrest. This week no bodies had been found in the streets, but several eateries had been robbed and their cutlery stolen.

All things that Vimes had to know about and write down in all the proper places.

He itched to just go on patrol, where he would undoubtedly spend most of his time just stretching his legs and observing the city around him.

Being called to an appointment in the Patrician’s Palace late in the evening was just the smushed blackberry on top of the badly whipped cream that covered a burnt cake that was raw in the middle.

The meeting in the Rats’ Chamber that morning had been bad enough. He knew that he’d made quite a few people violently angry with his actions and that Vetinari no doubt had something to say about that.

Vimes had fished out his knitting from his bag, trying to find something in his life that he could control as he counted not so much underneath his breath as the needles made their comforting sound. It was a scarf, because sometimes you needed an easy project.

This one was pink, blue and purple. Just a few rows of each color until he switched them, but it was good to see how far it had come already since he started it last week. And Vetinari had complimented it on Monday as he saw that Vimes was working on it in the antechamber. The Heads of the Guilds had been arguing for at least ten minutes about taxes, and Vimes had paid all his so he’d just started knitting. It was better to do something productive with his time if was going to be stuck in a chair for so long.

The fact that knitting a scarf made every single aristocrat inside the room enraged was just a bonus. They considered his knitting to be a clear sign that he was not paying attention to them, which was not true.

Vimes had been watching everyone, including the Patrician. He could see the artistic winged silver eyeliner that he was wearing, which required damn steady hands to apply, as well as the usual concealer underneath the eyes. Vetinari had spent most of the meeting gesturing and talking, which had just drawn Vimes’s attention to his fingernails, which were painted black with a thin purple line.

He’d ignored the body glitter that had peeked just above the collar of Vetinari’s shirt. And not thought of how it was summer and that the man was highly likely to just be wearing very short shorts underneath his robes.

If he was wearing anything.

Vimes had been very good and kept his eyes on his knitting for a while, listening to the Head of the Baker’s Guild complain about the price of butter these days.

He didn’t know how he’d managed to get out of that room. Or the Palace itself. But he did remember stumbling into the bookstore in Peach Street and just piled the high-heat naval romances into his bag after he’d paid for them. Now he didn’t have to worry about reading material for a few weeks.

It was bright enough inside the anteroom to the Oblong Office so that Vimes could read, but doing that would be like lighting a match inside a carriage carrying barrels of whale oil. He’d finished reading a good holiday romance on his coffee break after lunch, and that had been enough to make his mind wander back to the Palace.

And the sauciest scene in that book had been fifteen minutes of some scorching kisses as the characters were stuck in a broom closet together. Still, reading the book had brightened his day and caused him to spill coffee all over his shirt and breastplate when Nobby had interrupted his reading.

Vimes kept knitting, row after row.

By the time everyone else had left, he was almost finished with the scarf.

He looked up when he heard the sound of someone making their way up the stairs.

“His lordship will see you now,” Drumknott said, carrying a tray with two drinks in them. Ice clinked against the glasses, which both appeared to be full of milk and topped with an almost caramel colored whip.

“What is that?” Vimes asked, narrowing his eyes at the drinks.

“Whipped coffee on top of milk,” Drumknott said. “The stokers on the trains are very fond of it. And clerks on the night shift, too.”

“What does it _do_?” Vimes asked. He’d seen some of his officers drinking strong coffee poured over ice and covered in syrup and cream on their breaks. And Lipwig had once arrived very late to a meeting holding one of those in his hand.

But this was new.

“Mr. Pessimal introduced it to me,” Drumknott said. “It makes one… _go fast_. The lord has had three of these today.”

“Not been the best day, then?”

“It’s unwise to try to predict how he’ll react to a situation on any given day, I’ve found,” Drumknott mused. “But he might be…livelier than usual.”

“That coffee must have one hell of a kick, then,” Vimes said.

“Yes,” Drumknott said with the air of a man who’d tried it once and stayed awake for 12 hours straight, blazed through all his paperwork and organizing, then cleaned every single inch of his flat and possibly made some kind of art sculpture out of all his paperclips. “It does.”

Vimes followed him into the Oblong Office, where Vetinari was standing in one of his floaty summer dresses by the window, leaning on his cane. Two empty glasses were on the desk, completely drained.

Drumknott put the tray on the desk without so much as a sound, then headed to the door with the empty glasses on the tray.

“I will return in the morning, your lordship,” Drumknott said, nodding at them both. “Good night to you both.”

“Right,” Vimes said. “Good night.”

“Enjoy your evening with Mr. Pessimal, Drumknott,” Vetinari said, turning around to face Vimes. “Ah, good to see you, Commander.”

“You asked me to come,” Vimes said, heat racing up his neck as soon as the words had left his lips.

“Indeed, I did,” Vetinari said, raising an eyebrow.

He limped to the desk, only using his cane as light support. Body glitter covered his legs underneath the cobweb-fine black stockings that were only visible because of the high slit on the Patrician’s dress as he walked. It went all the way up to his thighs, but the stockings were tied with a red ribbon underneath his knees.

Vimes grabbed one of the coffee drinks and stirred it with the long metal spoon to distract himself so that he would not start wondering if Vetinari was wearing lingerie or short shorts.

It had to be light fabric, though.

It was hot out, even so late in the evening.

Vimes took a big sip of coffee, feeling as if the caffeine had wacked him over with a mallet in the matter of seconds.

He breathed out in relief as the cold milk and coffee blend did its best to cool him down. Maybe he could ask the Patrician for a glass of water with ice as well?

And he would not dump all of it over his head in front of the Patrician, either. Even if the man might appreciate the sight, it would just cause a mess.

No, he’d drink it.

When Vimes put his glass down, Vetinari was eyeing him as he was a glass of refreshing lemonade with all the leafy garnishes and ice in it.

“Thank you for the coffee, sir,” Vimes said, trying to compose himself.

“It’s quite good,” Vetinari said, licking his lips.

Heat coursed through Vimes’s veins, the cold drink in his hand and the faint smile on Vetinari’s face made him feel young and reckless. Like this was a game and they were both winning.

And of course, they were.

The city was thriving.

Vetinari had whisked him away just last week and given him a scenic tour of the city from the carriage, a bony hand around his shoulder the whole ride and their thighs pressing together as Vetinari talked about new businesses popping up, craftspeople arriving in the city from all over the Disc and all kinds of new things being invented for all kinds of people. Vimes had breathed in the faint scent of expensive soap and good tea and wanted to shrink in on himself, because he smelled like sweat and cigars.

But Vetinari had not moved away from him with a sharp word about takings more showers and cutting down on his cigars. He hadn’t plugged his nose.

Instead he’d kept talking, then let Vimes out at Pseudopolis Yard with a sharp smile and a nod.

“It’s very good coffee,” Vimes managed when he realized that he’d been silent for a while.

Vetinari hummed, seeing how Vetinari looked him up and down with an air of interest. His gaze lingered in certain places.

Vimes wanted to sit down. He needed to sit down to downplay how his trousers looked. He did not want to take a step back and find a chair, because Vetinari’s stare had nailed him to the ground.

“There has been a great deal of complaints about how the city is modernizing and not celebrating its traditions today,” Vetinari said, taking a long sip of his coffee as well. “A free press, new ways of travelling, food and drink that wasn’t common a few decades ago being imported. People taking up hobbies that are not considered suitable for their perceived gender...”

“People are coming up to me in the street and telling me that they don’t like to see my officers courting folks of the same sex or walking around the city with their many spouses,” Vimes said. “Do they expect me to throw them out of the Watch?”

“Not everyone wants to move with the times,” Vetinari said.

And they accuse you of making them move too fast, Vimes thought as Vetinari smiled at him, razor-sharp as Vimes made a displeased sound. People hadn’t made a fuss when the Patrician had started wearing nail polish, assuming that it was some odd kind of aristocratic fashion statement. And the eyeliner and eyeshadow could be waved away with being part of the look of the ruler of the city.

But when Vetinari had put on some lipstick, people had considered that a step too far. Not to mention those days when Vetinari wore elegant dresses. Floor-length ones too.

“Ah,” Vetinari said. “That’s an expression I like to see.”

“What expression?” Vimes said. “It’s not like I can see my own face, you know.”

“Outraged,” Vetinari said. “Just look at that short watchman, ready to fight the whole Disc.”

“What?”

“All that rage, concentrated like dried spices in that portable container of a body,” Vetinari continued, clearly enjoying himself. “It must be a Vimes family trait.”

“Old Stoneface was not a tall man,” Vimes said, as Vetinari sat down on the edge of the huge desk. It had been sanded down over the decades, as there had been deep scratches on the top because people liked to do inventive things on top of it as a way to release tension. “I’ve seen the engravings of how the king’s main advisor towered over him.”

“It is a shame that so much of his diaries and reports were censored or burned,” Vetinari mused.

“I’ve had a look at the originals,” Vimes said as Vetinari pulled him closer.

“Have you?”

“They were quite…thorough about his appetites,” Vimes said, swallowing. “Detailed, too. He spent quite a bit of time on top of this desk. With a certain someone.”

“Hm,” said Vetinari, hands unbuckling Vimes’s breastplate with practiced movements. It fell on the floor with a clatter. He untied the red neckerchief around Vimes’s throat slowly, long fingers brushing against skin until Vimes’s breath was far too shallow.

Soon the money pouch followed, the belt and the truncheon, the chain mail shirt.

Until Vimes felt like a lobster divested of its shell.

“Some traditions are worth holding on to,” Vetinari said, his hand resting just over Vimes’s heart. “Aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Vimes said, seeing the way that Vetinari’s cheeks were dusted pink. He stepped closer to Vetinari, making sure that his stance was as open as possible. “They are.”

Vetinari pulled Vimes into a kiss, cupping his jaw as the kiss deepened. The taste of coffee was still strong and somehow bright as Vimes stepped in between Vetinari’s thighs and forgot about everything that wasn’t just the two of them in this room overlooking their city.

Vimes had only managed to undo a few buttons of Vetinari’s dress and trace the edge of his neckline when they parted, his cheeks felt so warm that Vetinari’s cool hands gently stroking the fabric covering his soft sides felt like a blessing instead of a curse.

It was strange to be touched as if he was something to be treasured, even after all those years with Sybil. Something about the feel of Vetinari’s beard against his skin brought back memories of a former boyfriend that had always covered Vimes’s mouth when they’d get into bed with each other, hushing at him if he made any sound and then left him as soon as it was all over.

They kissed again, Vetinari wrapping his good leg around Vimes’s waist as Vimes buried his hands in Vetinari’s long hair. It was ridiculously soft, because Vetinari was a man that put sort of goop in it that made it all silky like this.

Then the Patrician pressed up against him, kissing down his neck as Vimes fumbled with the last buttons on the robe and undid the cravat.

“Please,” Vimes said as Vetinari pulled away from him. Sweat pooled at the small of his back, gluing his shirt to his skin. His hair was dirty from a day of running around the city. “I must look like a wreck.”

“Do you want to stop?” Vetinari asked, blinking. His lipstick was smudged, his hair sticking out in odd places. He let go of Vimes completely, breathing in. “Or do you want to wreck me, as well?”

“The second one,” Vimes said.

“Good.”

Vetinari stood up, his dress sliding off his shoulders and put away neatly on the chair behind the desk. Then the boots kicked off. He pushed Vimes towards the desk until Vimes was sitting on it.

Vetinari stood in front of him, pupils blown wide as he watched Vimes sweep the paperwork off the desk and lie down on his back as Vetinari finished unbuttoning his shirt.

That left an embroidered backless camisole and floaty shorts in black that looked like they were made to be ruined. Nothing like the ones Vimes had on, which both Sybil and Vetinari had labeled as being practical and long-lasting.

“Get over here,” Vimes said, his mouth dry.

Vetinari climbed on top of the desk, towering over Vimes as he settled on his knees above Vimes’s hips. They crushed their mouths together, hands all over each other as they ground against each other. Skin slick with sweat, smiles unguarded and kisses rougher by the second.

Vimes knew that he was making embarrassing sounds as Vetinari gripped his hips and breathed praises in his ear. But he didn’t find it in him to care, not with Vetinari arching into his touch and shaking above him as they moved steadily closer to completion.

“Please, Sam,” Vetinari said, as they moved perilously close to falling off the desk and ended up on their sides. Thankfully all the paperwork was on the floor already.

His breathing was short, his face flooded with color. Nothing like the composed man that had stood in that room earlier, not a hair out of place.

Vimes pulled him closer, then stroked Vetinari firmly until the man was a shuddering, gasping mess. A laugh escaped Vimes as Vetinari returned the favor as soon as he could breathe properly again. They lay there for a moment, letting the white-hot pleasure stay as long as it could.

They could have this moment.

Later, they’d stand up and clean everything and each other up, then Vimes would find the wheelchair and medication for Vetinari. They’d end up in bed, too exhausted to do much else than sleep.

Tomorrow, there would be hot water and soft towels and Vimes would profusely thank his past self and Sybil for making sure that there was always a fresh uniform at the Palace.

But for now, they could enjoy themselves.


End file.
